I’m a little confused about whether it’s the official National Pie Day or whether that happens on March 14. Although my husband, the math teacher, is firmly in favor of March 14, I say, why can’t it be both?
So in honor of this great day in history, as well as the 5 inches of snow that recently fell in my hometown of Harrisburg, PA, I present you with Dirty Snow Pie.
It all started the other day, when I was indulging my current vanilla obsession by prepping every vanilla recipe in my arsenal. One that I’ve always loved is this recipe from Epicurious.com for Vanilla Snow. It’s kind of like a vanilla slushy and perfect for one of those nights when you can’t decide between ice cream and sorbet. (I rarely have those nights, as I would always always go for the ice cream, but sometimes I do try to accommodate my guests.)
As I was whipping up the snow like a Ski Roundtop snow machine, I learned about the exciting weather report back in PA. Since that was Saturday, I knew what that snow would be looking like by today, so I took the opportunity to use some melted chocolate I had and made that Vanilla Snow into Stracciatella, one of my favorite ice cream flavors. Now, if you drizzle straight chocolate into an ice cream maker, YOU WILL NOT GET VANILLA FUDGE ICE CREAM. You will get Stracciatella with a few big boulders in it, but that’s the fun part. Next I threw in a few ground pistachios for gravel. It was definitely starting to look like Third Street in Harrisburg a few days after a snow. Obviously, any treats you have around the kitchen for mucking up your snow should work just fine.
For the pie part, I baked off a pate sucree that I had in the freezer. You can use any pie crust you desire, and an Oreo crust would be mighty fine, but there comes a time when I have to use the odds and ends that I throw together on a daily basis, and today was the pate sucree’s lucky day.
Next, I spread the bottom of the crust with melted chocolate and put it in the freezer for about 15 mins. Be advised, that the hard chocolate on the bottom makes the pie hard to cut, but with a name like Dirty Snow Pie this recipe clearly was not developed to be pretty. If you don’t want the bottom of your pie to split like shale, you might want to consider using ganache on the bottom, instead of solid chocolate.
Cover the chocolated and chilled crust with the dirty snow. Then drizzle with more melted chocolate til it looks like muddy tire tracks in a city with no traffic laws. Toss on some more pistachio gravel. And of course, where there’s ice, there needs to be salt. A sprinkle of fleur de sel, please. And thank you.
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Ok, I realize I’ve been home from Tahiti for two weeks now, but that doesn’t mean I’m done talking about it. Especially since one of the main reasons I wanted to go there was to lay eyes on a real-life Tahitian vanilla farm. You see, it was learning, not just luxury that led me to the Society Islands.
In all reality, I had planned on doubling our honeymoon as a work-study where I would be spending most of my time on a vanilla plantation, examining the plants with an expert and a clipboard, maybe toiling in the fields a bit. (I strategically left this part out of the agenda I showed Steve.)
I had read about idyllic Tahitian vanilla visits on the Amano Chocolate blog and the Vanilla Queen blog. Both Art Pollard and Patricia Rain had strolled through vanilla fields with handsome French guides, a warm Polynesian breeze blowing through their hair. They had done it right. So I reached out to one of their guides, Alain Abel who owns Tahiti Vanille in Raiatea, but he told me that they don’t offer tours of their plantation anymore. Alas, my dreams of a personal vanilla experience were replaced by visions of unloading from a tour bus to be herded through the token vanilla farm portion of the island tour with a bunch of Germans.
My experience matched neither of those scenarios, while being just what I was looking for. And it went a little something like this…
My first step in satisfying the vanilla bug was to get us to the official Vanilla Island, the island of Taha’a. About 70-80% of all the vanilla in French Polynesia is grown on Taha’a (according to Wikipedia, at least). It’s also one of the lesser visited islands, which put it high on my list. After an eight-hour flight from LA, six hours of sleep in Papeete, and a 45-minute flight to Raiatea, we boarded a boat to Taha’a. About 10 minutes after docking at the Pension Hibiscus, we were back on a boat for the island tour. After surviving a treacherous snorkeling experience and falling asleep at a pearl farm demonstration, I was ready for the much-anticipated vanilla farm visit.
Only about seven people from our island tour joined in for the vanilla farm part, so it wasn’t the cavalcade I had feared. And they were all lovely, so I probably would have invited them on my private tour anyway. Our guide took us to Le Vallée de la Vanille where the owner, Moeata, started by showing us green vanilla vines clinging all nice and sultry to the branches of small acacia trees. The vines and trees share a symbiotic relationship, where the vanilla gets nutrients from the tree, but I’m not exactly sure what the tree gets out of it.
Vanilla takes a long-ass time to cultivate. It can take 14 months for the pods to grow after pollination, plus another nine months after that until they’re ready to be picked. Vanilla beans are picked while still green and then dried in the sun for weeks. During the drying process, each pod is massaged by hand to bring out the natural oils. Basically, if you’re thinking about growing vanilla, you should start now.
Each bean is sorted by quality and graded based on length, appearance, etc, etc. Some make the cut, some make extract and powder. I bought 100 grams of Première Catégorie beans, and let me just tell you, each one is like a suitcase full of flavor. They’re like 3x as plump as the dried up twigs you’ll find at the grocery store, and every time I open the package it smells like someone lit a French Vanilla Yankee Candle the size of a barrel. I hope they last forever.
In short, seeing organic vanilla vines growing free in the wild; getting the scoop from a real Polynesian; and bringing home a quantity of fat, juicy Tahitian vanilla beans was all I really needed as far as vanilla exploration during my honeymoon. I’ll save the hard labor for the next visit…
I wanted to sample the flavor of these darlings in a pure, unadulterated manner, and this vanilla pot de crème recipe was the way to go. Under normal circumstances, I believe that a pot de crème without chocolate is like a parade without sunshine, but these little pots of gold reminded me of mini vanilla milkshakes.
Vanilla Pots de Crème (6 servings)
Adapted from the NY Times
- 1 1/2 cups whole milk (or half & half or more heavy cream, but whole milk was perfectly decadent)
- 1 c heavy cream
- 1 Tahitian vanilla bean (or 2 of any other old vanilla bean)
- 6 egg yolks
- 1/2 cup sugar
1. Heat oven to 325 degrees. Pour cream into small saucepan. Split vanilla beans in half lengthwise and scrape seeds into cream. Put pod in cream, too. Bring to a boil over high heat. Cover pan, turn off heat and let the flavors infuse for 30 minutes.
2. Beat yolks and sugar together in a stand mixer on high for 3 minutes, until the mixture is thick and pale yellow. Beating on low, pour about a quarter of the cream (remove vanilla bean pod) into this mixture. Add the rest of the milk mixture and allow to sit for 20 minutes. Skim off foam. Pour mixture into 6 4-ounce ramekins and place ramekins in a baking dish; fill dish with hot water halfway up the side of dishes. Cover with foil.
3. Bake 45-55 minutes, or until center is just set. Chill, then serve.
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I thought Tahiti would be a good opportunity to go off the sugar. In a past life, I used to treat myself with cookies. Now no meal, snack or hour is complete without them. So for me, “getting away from it all” included not only traffic, helicopters, and work, but also, SUGAR.
I pictured myself doing my body good with freshly caught fish and freshly picked fruit. My meals would look like this:
Or like this:
However, three days into the trip I was dying. And not only over the spectacular sunrises and blue lagoons. I was dying for sugar. (Just to clarify, in my book, fruit is not a substitute for a sugary snack. I mean, c’mon–it’s healthy!)
The package of chocolate-covered wafers that Steve picked up at the store was no solution. At best, they had sat on the shelf for two years. At worst, ten. *Funny side note–our hosts’ three-year-old daughter who’s never had a cookie in her life, snuck into our kitchen and sniffed out that nondescript blue package of wafers as if it were a Happy Meal with a Barbie on the box. And if her parents weren’t standing right there, I would have gladly slipped her one and made her little world a little sweeter. What can I say? I’m a corrupter from way back.*
But enough about the wafers. The solution turned out to be much simpler. Instead of going to the store, I turned to the land. (I really had no choice–we were literally stuck on a desert island. Check it out if you don’t believe me.) And the land was full of coconut trees.
I got right to work, asking Steve to husk and split a coconut for me. Our host, Walter, had made husking a coconut look like child’s play, but I soon learned that his skills are a product of living in a coconut forest for eight years. It was slightly more strenuous for the soft city folk. Either way, it was men’s work.
Next, I dragged myself out of the hammock to grate the coconut. Grating a coconut is not nearly as sweaty as husking one. You straddle a board (or sometimes a bench) with a round, spiky metal plate attached and scrape the inside of the coconut against the plate in a rotating motion. I love trying new kitchen tools, and more importantly, I felt very National Geographic.
Next, you wrap the grated coconut in a thin kitchen towel and squeeze out the glorious milk. It’s that easy.
To the milk, I added a handsome helping of raw sugar and boiled the whole thing in a pan for about 15 minutes, until it reduced to a thick, caramelized jam. The finished product was golden and reminiscent of honey butter with a coconut flare. I spread it on everything and my sugar craving was cured.
This two-ingredient recipe is a quick and easy alternative to Malaysian kaya jam, which includes eggs. FYI–the jam turned rock hard in the fridge and then separated when reheated on the stove, so I would suggest reheating it gradually in a microwave at 10-15 second increments. Or just eat it all at once.
Quick Coconut Jam
- 1 14-oz can coconut milk
- 1/2 cup turbinado sugar (or brown sugar or white sugar–whatever you have on hand on your own personal desert island)
Combine the two ingredients in a bowl or directly in the pan you’re going to cook them in. Is it just me, or does this photo remind you of a foamy wave crashing on a beach of Tahitian coral sand?
Boil over medium to medium-high heat until the jam reduces by about half and coats the back of a spoon, about 15 minutes. It will bubble up like this during cooking, so make sure your pan is big enough.
Allow to cool and spread on toast or anything else you can find on your island.
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I’ll be honest, this is not a quick and easy recipe. There are about 1000 steps that go into making these mini treats that will be gone in 2 bites, but I must admit, every single one is worth it. So, here we go:
1. Toast the pecans.
While most pecan pie recipes don’t have you toast the pecans because they will get toasty during the baking process, it’s a nice way to add flavor to ALL the pecans–not just the ones on top. I suggest toasting them for about 7 minutes, which is just long enough to bring out their aroma, but not so long that they start getting dark.
2. Cut out the pie crusts.
One of the blessings and curses of becoming an avid baker is the number of tools you need to buy. Growing up around my dad’s wood shop, I have sort of a nostalgic affinity for tools, but not so much the expense. That’s why it’s great to look around the kitchen and find everyday items that will work–like the lid of a pint container doubling as a crust cutter. This size round fit perfectly into a standard muffin cup.
3. Blind bake the pie crusts.
This is the type of step that really separates the bears from the chickens in the kitchen. For that perfectly crispy crust–especially a crust that’s eventually going to be dipped in chocolate–it needs to be fully baked. Which means the obnoxious extra step (which feels like about 100 steps) of lining the muffin cups with parchment, filling them with weights (rice or beans), baking them for 10 minutes, removing the parchment, and baking for another 10 minutes. **Be sure to spray the naked muffin pan with cooking spray, and also lightly spray the crusts before lining with parchment.** I understand if you’re currently having serious second thoughts about attempting this recipe, but hang in there!
4. Crush the pecans.
Now here’s a step where you can actually save some time (and dishes). Instead of coarsely chopping the pecans, I like to simple crush them in my bare hands. Granted, I will definitely have arthritis someday, but in the meantime, I prefer this method to parading out a cutting board and knife that will just add to the growing mountain of dishes in the sink.
5. Make the filling.
This part is a snap, as long as you have all the ingredients, that is. Scroll down for this sugar on sugar recipe for the best pecan pie ever.
6. Fill the muffin cups and bake.
Another unusually easy step in this strenuous recipe. Fill the cups with about 2-3 tablespoons of pecans and 2-3 tablespoons of filling. Don’t pack the cup with pecans because you want to allow room for that gooey layer of filling that puts the pecan pie in a class of its own. Bake at 350 degrees for about 20 minutes, until pies are golden brown.
7. Temper the chocolate.
Ok, get ready to roll up your sleeves again. Tempering chocolate is no picnic, but it’s also not as difficult as the history books make it out to be. I followed the David Lebovitz method, which I like because it is very straightforward and won’t leave you fretting all day over another baking process that people claim to be hard but really isn’t. He recommends heating the chocolate to 115 degrees, seeding and stirring to drop the temperature back down to the low 80′s, and then reheating it to about 88-91 degrees. The first time I reheated it, it shot way back up to the high 90s, so be very careful just to warm it up a bit in the final step. I use mostly Valrhona Equitoriale (55%) because I’m more of a semi-sweet than a bittersweet gal, but I threw in a few handfuls of Manjari (64%) to check the sweetness factor.
8. Dip these babies!
Sort of like Augustus Gloop in Willie Wonka, this pie is about to get a chocolate bath that will change its life forever. Simply dip the bottom and turn it over onto a rack, like so:
And there you have it–the 8 (give or take a few) steps to making scrumptious chocolate-dipped pecan pies. Now wrap and deliver to Eat My Blog 2011 on Saturday, December 10, 10-4pm at Pita Jungle in Pasadena. See you there!
Pecan Pie (makes enough for 1 9″ pie or about 18 minis)
- 1 c. dark corn syrup
- 1 c. dark brown sugar
- 3/4 t. salt
- 1/2 T. vanilla
- 2 T. brown butter, melted
- 1 T. bourbon
- 3 eggs
- 6-8 oz pecans, toasted and coarsely crushed or chopped
- 1 recipe for a double pie crust
1. Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
2. Spray muffin cups with cooking spray. Line with dough. Spray dough with cooking spray and dock with a toothpick. Line with parchment paper and fill each cup with pie weights, rice or dried beans. Bake for 10 minutes with weights. Carefully remove weights and parchment and bake for another 8-10 minutes. Allow to cool.
3. Combine first seven ingredients in a medium bowl.
4. Measure 2-3 T. pecans into each crust, careful not to pack. Spoon 2-3 T. pie filling over pecans, until it nears the top of the crust.
5. Bake at 350 degrees for 20 minutes or until tops are golden brown. Allow to cool on a rack and remove pies from muffin cups.
6. Temper chocolate according to instructions above. Dip each pie and invert onto a wire rack. Work quickly so chocolate doesn’t cool and harden. Allow to set. Enjoy!
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5. Fresh brioche in the stuffing: As my mom would say, “Isn’t that an extra step?” Well, yes, Mom, but sorry to tell you, real flavor is all about the extra steps. (It’s not her fault–she was raised on “Thanksgiving out of a can” central PA-style.) So grab your favorite brioche recipe (or any brioche recipe for that matter), bake it up a few days in advance and get ready for some extra special stuffing. Also, toast the cubes with olive oil beforehand, but don’t worry about trimming the crust–that extra step is unnecessary.
4. Caramelized onions in the gravy: Gravy is a real pain in the ass because it HAS to be prepared at the last minute–usually while people are milling around the table, finding their place cards and gushing about the turkey in a tone that strongly suggests, “Ok, we’re ready already.” I used to stand over the stove, sweating about serving a lumpy gravy, but not anymore! Thanks to this treasure on Epicurious, I simply caramelize onions and shallots with butter, add them to the roasting pan about 1 hour before the bird is done, and puree them in the blender for a French onion soup-flavored puree that is neither lumpy nor stressful. It’s absolutely scrumptious.
3. Maple in the pumpkin pie: Because what isn’t better with a little maple? I follow another great Epicurious recipe for this one. The maple is subtle, but it’s there in the perfect way. Just make sure it’s Grade B–that will make all the difference.
2. Sazeracs: My cousin is a clinical pharmacy genius and a mean bartender–in other words, he’s all about mixing cocktails. I asked him to bring the bar to the feast this year, and his carefully crafted concoctions really took our party to the next level. I’m voting for a new tradition. For our family and for yours.
1. Brown sugar in the marshmallow: Last Thursday was the first time I tasted brown sugar meringue, and my life is changed forever. Words cannot describe the utter glory of this invention. It’s caramelized and buttery and fresh-baked tasting. I put it on a ridiculously sugary “sweet potato crack casserole” that I made based on the one from Ruth’s Chris Steak House, and it was hands down the fan fave. But this delight shouldn’t be limited to sweet potatoes. In fact, I’m about to put it on everything in the kitchen. Starting with the leftover maple pumpkin pie.
Here’s the recipe for you to try and then fall in love with.
Brown Sugar Marshmallow Topping (for everything)
- 1 cup brown sugar
- 1/4 c water
- 2 egg whites
- 1/4 t salt
- 1/4 t cream of tarter
- 1 t vanilla extract
Put egg whites in the bowl of a stand mixer equipped with the whisk attachment. Don’t start beating yet.
Combine brown sugar and water in a small saucepan, being sure to wash down any sugar granules from the sides to prevent crystallization. Bring the mixture to a boil over high heat. Using a candy thermometer, bring the sugar to 240 degrees.
**When the sugar is around 220 degrees, start whipping the egg whites on high speed. When the egg whites are foamy, add the salt and cream of tarter. Continue to whip until the whites hold stiff peaks. (If the whites whip up before the sugar is done, turn the mixer to a lower speed so that they don’t overwhip and become dry. If little balls of egg white start appearing around the edge of the bowl, the whites are overmixed and you need to start over.)
The sugar mixture should be at 240 degrees by now. With the mixer still on high, slowly add the sugar syrup to the egg whites, pouring it down the side of the bowl so that it doesn’t attach to the beaters. Continue to beat the meringue until the mixture cools down–the bowl can still be warm to the touch, but not hot. Add the vanilla and beat to incorporate.
Apply in a swirly pattern to your favorite dessert or sweet potato casserole. Use a piping bag for some real fun.
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Well, it’s the not the Snickers Bar I had promised, but it sure is prettier. (At least the one in the foreground. The one in the background got a little smooshed on the ride home.)
This is Wagashi, a Japanese confection made with everyone’s favorite candy ingredients, red beans and potato. Ok, so your mouth may not be watering, but the flavors of wagashi are meant to be subtle because this sweet bite is just a servant to its master: tea.
I had the great pleasure of attending a wagashi workshop yesterday at Tortoise General Store (TGS doesn’t just stand for “The Girlie Show”) in Venice. The workshop was hosted by my Japanese cooking mentor, Sonoko Sakai from Cook Tells a Story, and Master Wagashi Chef Chikara Mizukami taught the class. Mizukami has a candy store in Tokyo and has been making wagashi since the beginning of time. He has the special power that makes only certain people capable of becoming wagashi masters: cold hands. For this reason, it’s widely believed that women are not suited for the job, though I believe there’s a Real Housewife of New York City or two who could fit this description.
We learned about the Edo (or Samurai) style of wagashi, as well as the Kyoto (or Aristocratic/Imperial) style. The Edo style is more realistic, as in the flowers in the middle of the plate. While the Kyoto style is more abstract, like the Koosh ball looking things at the ends, and each of these gorgeous creations represents a season. The golden Koosh ball in the front is “Momiji” or maple for Fall, and its supposed to resemble a mountainside of flaming foliage. The pillow-like flower is a camellia for Winter. The five-petaled flower is “Nadeshiko” or a dianthus for Summer. And the pink Koosh in the back is “Sakura” or a pile of fallen cherry blossoms for Spring.
This beauty here was my handiwork, and let me just tell you, Mizukami definitely made this look a lot easier than it really is. I thought that my blossoming fondant and marzipan skills would make me a pro, but as we all know, Rome wasn’t built in a day. It was a truly magical class that we topped off with a bite of wagashi and a cup of steaming, swampy matcha tea.
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I decided that Creepshow deserved a little love this Halloween because it is one of the few horror movies I know of that stars not only a cake, but also a piping bag in one of its most memorable scenes. I’ve been fascinated by this movie ever since the first segment, “Father’s Day,” sent me home crying from a sleepover when I was in elementary school. Fortunately, I’ve overcome my fears and learned to enjoy it for the kitschy piece of crap that it is. So this Halloween, I’ve gone ahead and created five confections inspired by each of the five stories in this fine movie.
The first is, of course, the frantically over-decorated cake from “Father’s Day,” along with requisite piping bag. To fully appreciate this photo, you should watch the cake decorating scene that pushes poor Bedelia over the edge. I give her credit for decorating such a beautiful cake and not simply buying it at the grocery store, but it already looks done, so I don’t know why she doesn’t just slam it down in front of the guy and go have a strong drink. Or better yet, why doesn’t the maid finish it while Bedelia calms herself with a strong drink? Either way, it’s a very controversial cake, and I consider it one of the best scenes involving cake in all of film history. As a side note, this father totally reminds me of my dog when he’s hungry for dinner. Fortunately, my dog is much cuter than Mr. Grantham, and I’m more mentally stable than Bedelia.
Next we have “The Lonesome Death of Jordy Verrill.” Nothing special here, but let’s just say that as I was teaching my cake decorating students the fuzzy mum with Wilton piping tip #133, I had other ideas in mind. If you’ve never seen it, here’s a link to the final scene.
In the third story, “Something to Tide You Over,” we have Ted Danson and his girlfriend buried in the sand as the tide rises. In the movie, they get caught in bed by the girlfriend’s husband, Leslie Neilsen, who sentences them to this horrible fate. I’ve chosen to depict it with my favorite Malaysian dessert, cendol, which is a concoction of coconut milk, palm sugar syrup and green rice noodles (Malaysians love all sorts of noodles, beans and corn in their desserts). Though usually served over crushed ice, I first had it in the Jell-o format, like you see here. This is particularly pertinent to the story because it uses agar agar, a gelling agent derived from algae. I followed this recipe, but I have to admit, I wasn’t crazy about it. There was so much agar agar that the final product was rock hard and unappetizing, but let’s just say that Ted and his scandalous girlfriend were not going anywhere. If you want a good cendol, simply pour coconut milk, palm sugar syrup (even maple will do) and cendol noodles over crushed ice.
I had a hard time getting inspired by the fourth story, “The Crate,” so I phoned this one in. It’s about a Yeti that some professors find in an old crate in a crawl space at the university. The crate is from over 100 years ago, so I broke out an old homemade Snickers bar I made three weeks ago. In homemade Snickers bar terms, this one is over 100 years old. This link will probably give you a better idea. And don’t get mad at me if I have the date wrong–I haven’t studied this segment in detail. More on the homemade Snickers in due time.
And finally, the last story, “They’re Creeping Up on You,” with roaches played by none other than a batch of chocolate-covered dates.
The real challenge with this one was staying true to the setting–my apartment is nowhere near as clean as Upson Pratt’s apartment. Making the dates is the easy part. I used pitted Deglet Noor dates, my favorite caramel sauce recipe, dipped them in Valrhona Equitoriale (55%) chocolate and sprinkled them with fleur de sel. The fun part is that when broken in half, the caramel oozes from the date like the insides of a cockroach. Bet you’re dying to make them now.
If you don’t have a caramel recipe, here’s mine.
Vanilla Caramel (yields 2 cups)
- 6 oz sugar
- 1.5 oz corn syrup
- ½ Tahitian vanilla bean, split and scraped
- 4 oz salted butter
- 4 oz cream
In a small stockpot, combine sugar, vanilla bean and syrup. Add a bit of water if necessary to get a wet-sand consistency. Clean sides of pot thoroughly with a pastry brush and water to avoid crystallization.
Cook the sugar over high heat until it turns a rich, rusty amber color. Remove the pot from the heat and carefully add the butter and cream. Return the pot to the stove. Over medium high heat, very slowly stir the caramel with a long whisk to incorporate the butter as it melts.
Allow the caramel to darken further, returning it to that rich, rusty amber color once again.
Remove from heat and strain into bowl. Stir gently with spatula as it cools.
Store in airtight container. Caramel can be kept in the refrigerator for up to 3 weeks if tightly covered.
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There’s a reason this cake is dressed down: it’s trying to be modest. It thought it was going to an upscale dinner party, but when I told it we were going to a pool party, it got all shy and embarrassed. The truth is, it’s way too fancy for a pool party. With its blackberry sabayon and its slick chocolate glaze, it just didn’t need any other adornment that would simply intimidate the Betty Crocker brownies and Costco pies that are standard pool party fare. So it went for the space age mod look and tried to fit in.
But there was no way. With the very first slice, everyone knew it was different. It belonged in a class of its own, at an opulent ball for the European elite. Not at a Van Nuys pool party on a cloudy day when no one was even swimming.
Such was the destiny of my La Bomba–the final cake in this utterly intense yet thoroughly enjoyable bake along with the Heavenly Cake Bakers. Zach’s La Bomba, a rich, chocolately frozen mousse cake brightened up with a hint of blackberry, was one of the main reasons I bought Rose’s Heavenly Cakes. AND it was one of the main reasons I joined the group–I knew I would never have occasion to make it otherwise. As it turns out, I still didn’t have occasion to make it, but I went ahead anyway. I slaved over it on a Friday night when I could have been at a Prince concert, watching Prince and Stevie Wonder jam out to “Superstition.” Instead, I was at home, madly whisking a sabayon over a hot stove. Because although I’ve let several cakes pass me by over the past few weeks, I wasn’t going to forget this one.
And to be honest, thank god for that pool party because otherwise the La Bomba would have stayed in our apartment–Steve would have eaten a little piece, I would have devoured a large piece–and it never would have graced the outside world and made the day of those who got to taste it. It kind of reminds me of the time my mom and I (around age 11) made a gourmet dinner for the family and attempted a semifreddo. We had no idea what we were doing, but it sure looked good on the cover of Bon Appetit. I can’t quite remember how that semifreddo turned out, but the fact that it was unmemorable is probably a good indicator if the results. Either way, it just blended in to another Schreck family dinner and therefore, didn’t get the love it very well may have deserved.
The La Bomba, on the other hand, turned out terrifically. It was best when it was still a bit frozen, but it continued to taste great, even went it melted and slumped over. The Heavenly Cake Bakers definitely saved the best for last.
I don’t know if I’ll ever make this cake again, but I’m very pleased that I at least made it once. And I have the Heavenly Cake Bakers to thank for that. Thanks, Marie, for letting me join the club as a latecomer, and thanks for not kicking me out when I was lazy and didn’t blog for weeks. Thanks to my fellow members for all the support and entertaining stories along the way. I won’t say we went through war together, but definitely something like it. It’s been an honor and a privilege to bake alongside you, and I wish everyone a future full of many cakes. Oh and last but not least, thank you, Rose, for inspiring us all on this mission and in our everyday lives. It was the most delicious challenge I’ve ever participated in. Until the next book, farewell! (*For the record, I’m not ending my blog, just closing this chapter of it.)
I’m sending you off with this picture of me glazing the cake because it cracks me up–even after I told Steve not to get me in the photo at all, he managed to get my sweatshirt, my nighty and my fluffy socks. Just another Saturday morning at our place.
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As you can see from this scene in my kitchen, I’m off the diet and back on cake. Yes, two cakes in one week means business–the business of indulging.
I had no choice but to make two cakes because I was playing catch up with the Heavenly Cake Bakers. I have been inexplicably MIA, which means I have absolutely no explanation for not blogging the past week or so. Maybe I just can’t work without a sugar rush.
Anyway, the two featured cakes happen to be the Karmel Cake and Miette’s Tomboy from Rose’s Heavenly Cakes. I’ll start with the more notable of the two: Miette’s Tomboy.
This is the moist, fudgy type of chocolate cake that I will compare every other chocolate cake to from this day forward. Even after sitting in the refrigerator overnight without a cover, at the mercy of that chilly, dry vacuum, the Tomboy stayed fudgy beyond compare. Frosted with the creamy vanilla mousseline, it was like a Hostess cake right out of the age-defying package–but, like a million times better.
Since the recipe called for that gorgeous mousseline, I took the opportunity to practice Swiss dots for a wedding cake I have coming up real soon. The danger with Swiss dots is that they have a tendency to come out as Swiss spikes, which isn’t the look I was aiming for. I believe I will use a much smaller piping tip for the wedding cake, perhaps even just a paper cone.
This is what the Tomboy would look like if it were served at a wedding.
Ok, on to the next confection: the Karmel Cake, which is special because it has caramel in the cake batter. Very nifty, Rose! Upon first bite, the cake didn’t thrill me, which kind of made me sad because all my other Heavenly Cake Baking Buddies seemed to love it. However, each time I went back for another bite (several) I liked it a little bit better. Here’s the best way I can think of to describe it: When I took cake decorating class with Toba Garrett, she said that the most delicious part of the cake is the gooey caramelized top layer that we tend to cut or peel off when we frost the cake. (It’s the top part of the cake that’s missing in my first photo because I inverted it onto parchment and it attached itself.) What I’m trying to say is that the entire Karmel Cake tastes like that yumminess.
Another way to describe it, for all you Tastykake lovers out there is that it tastes like a Krimpet, a childhood favorite of mine. Apparently, real Krimpets have butterscotch frosting, but I found that the caramel-flavored cake topped with the vanilla mousseline from the Tomboy was a very close replica. Here, I butchered the cake into a close approximation of the Krimpet.
So, I guess the theme that ties these two cakes together is packaged baked goods recreated as gourmet. Or the cakes that ruined my diet. Either way, they’re almost gone.
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Before I go off on this cake, I’ll be honest here: It’s not the cake. It’s me. Under normal circumstances, a recipe with the title “Orange-Glow Chiffon Layer Cake” would never get made in this house. Overly sweet orange is just not my thing. I hate cosmopolitans. Chocolate covered candied orange peels taste like rancid chocolate to me. And orange desserts in general remind me of one thing: Flintstones chewables.
However, I proceeded with this week’s assignment of the Heavenly Cake Bakers because if Rose Levy Beranbaum said to jump off a cliff, I would. I made it in a tube pan instead of a 9-inch springform, as instructed, because my springform is a 10 or 11-inch and I wasn’t about to buy a new one–not for an orange cake.
RLB is right–the texture is glorious. It’s the flavor that’s not great. Again, not the cake’s fault. My palate was simply not designed for the combination of orange and sugar on that level. Just the thought of a creamsicle sends chills up my spine.
As a glutton for punishment (among other things), I went ahead and made the True Orange Whipped Cream, fully understanding that True Orange could only mean “prepare yourself for an intense orange experience.” I did myself a small favor by leaving out the orange zest and adding a few scoops of crème fraiche and a quarter teaspoon of vanilla paste to balance the syrupy citrus of the marmalade. It was tolerable at best.
I wish I liked this cake, but the fork says it all in this pic:
(Actually, this photo is a total lie. I turned the camera off and ate the entire thing because, like I said, I’m a glutton for punishment. And a member of the Clean Plate Club.)
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